


Dawn

by bigsunglasses



Category: The Goblin Emperor - Katherine Addison
Genre: Canon Era, Community: hc_bingo, Dancing, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Friendship, Gen, Grief, Hope, Love, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-01
Updated: 2015-10-01
Packaged: 2018-04-21 10:17:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,842
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4825169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigsunglasses/pseuds/bigsunglasses
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>One could only live the future one was given.</em>
</p><p>Five times Vedero Drazhin danced, before and after her world changed forever.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dawn

**Author's Note:**

> An ∞ of thanks to song-of-staying for helping me pummel this thing into some sort of shape and figure out how to write it, and for reading endless bits and pieces of drafts. Oh and then she beta'd it too. HEROINE.

**I.** _The Last Summer of Varenechibel IV Drazhar's Reign_

*

Eshevis Tethimar asked Vedero to dance at the Midsummer Ball, which was expected, and was a very good dancer, which was not. From her slight knowledge of his character, largely gained second-hand, she had formed the impression of a man so absorbed in politics and the hunt as to leave no care for social frivolities. But here they were. Dancing.

She loved to dance, and rarely found the activity displeasing, but though his feet moved well to the music and he led her expertly, he was not a good partner. He did not speak to her, he did not even look at her face, and he appeared more interested in scrutinising the glowing marigold-orange lamps which hung just above the dancers' heads in the Untheileian.

“We see that your sister Uleviän Tethimin is not here tonight,” she said, wondering if he had any conversation in him for her. “We had the pleasure of meeting her at a salon last week, and enjoyed her company.”

“Indeed?” This caught his attention. In general she overtopped her partners, but he looked at her down his nose now as he spun them through a turn. His mouth sneered. “We have always thought her a most insipid girl.”

Dach'osmin Tethimin had seemed quite misplaced at the salon, which was one of those Vedero hosted on a monthly basis for certain women of the court whose interests extended beyond the traditionally feminine. At first the shy, stammering girl's presence had appeared to Vedero entirely unclear: then Csethiro had brought her across and introduced them – before, with admirable skill, drawing the girl out to talk about her gardens and greenhouses. The young dach'osmin's face had glowed with enthusiasm as she described the most recent bulbs she had acquired from a trader, come all the way from Solunee-over-the-Water.

“Certainly she is shy,” Vedero said, and left Tethimar's arms briefly to spin a neat circle, skirts flaring.

“She will be married soon,” he said, gathering her back into his clasp as impersonally as if she were a doll. “Our other sisters seem insipid to us also, but we daresay you will find them feminine companionship enough.”

She tried not to stiffen, but she knew her foot missed a beat, and she hated it, the tiny slip shattering up through her awareness of the entire dance.

Poise regained, she murmured, “Yes, we heard of her engagement to Prince Orchenis. It is a good match, we believe.” And not only as a business arrangement: Uleviän's enthusiasm for her betrothed had been nearly as great as her enthusiasm for rare snowdrops. What rare fortune for a highborn woman: it was to be hoped such feelings persisted.

“It suffices.” His tone was indifferent. “You dance well.”

“We thank you.”

“A necessary skill for a duchess.”

This time she did not stumble at his insinuation. “We believe you meant to say _archduchess._ ” Anger was a dangerous thing for someone like her, to be played with only cautiously, like the fire it was: she breathed deeply, rooting her consciousness in her feet, in their steady contact with the floor. The heat in her cheeks could be ascribed to the warmth of the summer night.

She did not miss the temper that lashed across his face, quick and shocking as lightning. “The negotiations are almost complete.”

“Such was our point. _Almost._ Until our father the Emperor brings us contracts to sign, nothing is certain.” She had always known she was destined for whatever match would bring her father an advantage, and she had never let herself indulge a wish that the world could be otherwise, but she did not find Eshevis Tethimar's presumptuous behaviour satisfactory. At present she outranked him. She would be his equal even when marriage shrank her into Tethimada. He should care for her good graces.

“But he will.”

She did not reply.

“We say again that he will! He needs this alliance.”

She spun away from him again once, came back to his grasp. “He does.”

“And we will have it. We will have you.”

Such a shame that the two things could not be separated. His insistence pushed at her, squashed her down until she filled only her Drazhada body.

The dance came to an end in a flourish of piping from the musicians' gallery. He bowed, she curtsied, their hands still joined: he gripped hers tightly when she would have pulled away. “We find you evasive … Archduchess. We indulge you now, but we expect a proper enthusiasm for marriage in the future.”

 _Proper_. The sort of word that could be twisted to mean anything. Vedero had worked very hard to be _proper_ all of her life: dressing beautifully, socialising elegantly, keeping abreast of gossip, loyal to her family, cultivating the acquaintance of the right women she cared nothing for in order to draw attention from her intellectual friendships, dancing and attending the opera in order to draw attention from her astronomy ...

She did not resent her life. It was the way of the world, to be proper, to belong only a little bit to oneself, for otherwise one became outcast.

She did resent that her future husband thought her behaviour poor. She, a Drazhin archduchess! He was only a noble, and an unamiable one at that. He assumed. He insulted.

Now he released her hand. In his self-confidence he did not seem to require a response. “Good evening,” he said with a short bow, and left.

Absently, she flexed her fingers. They felt half-crushed. Glancing around the Untheileian she saw her father leaving the dance-floor with Csoru Zhasanai. As if he felt her gaze, he lifted his head and their eyes met.

She looked away, sharply. There were lines that could not be crossed.

“That did not look pleasant.” Csethiro, who could move quietly when she chose, came to Vedero's side. She was flushed with dancing, earrings trembling and twinkling with lamp-light.

“Thou observed?”

“Indeed.” She smiled, small and sharp. “Thy poor brother the Prince is not a good dancer – that is one truth I will grant Sheveän. I had plenty of opportunity to study others, while he sorted out his feet. _What_ did Eshevis say to thee? 'Tis easy to see, thou art in a temper.”

“I assure thee I am perfectly calm.”

“ _I_ wouldn't be, if I just danced with him.” Csethiro managed to sound quite dispassionate, but she touched one hand gently to Vedero's silk-clad shoulder. “I know him better than thee, for our fathers once engaged in politics together – the matter of Khalno, dost thou recall? - and I think him entirely objectionable.”

Vedero almost sighed, but caught herself. It did not matter if she thought the same. An archduchess had some choices in her life, but the matter of marriage was certainly not one of them – while the Ceredada girls were only the daughters of a marquess, and a foolish one to boot, who had let them grow like wild roses and only occasionally forced them to his will with shears and temper. The eldest had made a love match, to a suitable noble of course, but it had still been for love. Csethiro would have much freedom also in her choice of husband.

It made a curious ache come to Vedero's throat. She had no yearning for marriage, but she did yearn for – yet what was the point of naming it, even to herself? “Thy opinion is noted, my dear friend,” she said quietly. “Now I must find Nazhira.” She slipped away from Csethiro, felt her friend's gaze following, and wished she could find it in her to turn and smile.

When she found her brother, she was glad he was her next partner, for he was a quiet soul. Clearly tired of the ball, he did not trouble her with conversation. The great crowds of the Untheileian retreated in her mind as she danced her way back to an empty tranquillity, treading a measure with her feet that was as steady as the turn of the stars.

*

**II.** _The Last Day of Varenechibel IV Drazhar's Reign_

*

By that afternoon the Emperor and Archdukes would be returned, trailed by flocks of courtiers, and the halls would ring and bustle once more. But for now, so many residents of the Untheileneise Court had attended the wedding of Prince Orchenis and Uleviän Tethimin in Amalo that the great maze of corridors and chambers seemed bigger than usual, empty, echoing. Walking to the Empress's Study for one of her salons, Vedero almost felt a girl again – defying bedtime to dart downstairs of an evening to Nemriän's bedchamber in a fit of giggles, evading nurse and nursery armsmen both.

In the Study – which was really a great parlour with a wall of windows overlooking an ornamental pond, and had received its name in mockery of the a long-gone empress who had not known how to write – she found most of the ladies of her circle already gathered. Csethiro appeared to be showing one stout matron some fencing passes, but desisted on spotting Vedero. “There you are!” she said, with the informality of attitude if not grammar only allowed to an archduchess's dearest friend, and there were curtsies around the room.

“Welcome.” Vedero projected her voice a little, filling the high-ceilinged Study without shouting. An archduchess should never have need to shout. “This is the fortieth salon we have hosted, and we are pleased to see new faces on each occasion. Today - ”

“Today,” interrupted Csethiro, smiling, “is also the Archduchess's twenty-eighth birthday.”

This provoked an uncertain spatter of clapping. Vedero held her chin high and ears steady, trying to breathe steadily and not blush. After a certain age, an unmarried woman's birthday should not be a matter of public celebration. But Csethiro always had such odd ideas.

“Today,” she said, reclaiming control, “we have a gentlemen of Barizhan, one Jamu Zhidelka, who first crossed the Chadevan Sea when he was ten, and has since become one of the great travellers of our age.” This description, she thought, neatly covered careers both legal and illegal. She indicated a goblin man in the corner who wore plain clothes the colour of his skin. His face was crumpled like silk skirts after sitting, but widened into a smile as the attention of the room swung to him. “He has written many books detailing his travels with great accuracy and reflection, of which we are sure you must all have heard even if you have not yet read them, and this afternoon he proposes to entertain us by teaching us Versheleeni dances.” Not as intellectual as the salon's usual fair. But it was her birthday, and she did love to dance.

Two fiddlers slipped in through a servants' door, and Zhidelka instructed the ladies to pair up - “yes, dance with each other, men are not always necessary!”. Laughter filled the room at such a novelty, and Csethiro came to Vedero, straight as an arrow.

Of course it wasn't just dancing, though it made a neat disguise – _what are the ladies doing? Oh, just dancing!_ The names of the dances, and the names of the steps, provoked a cultural interest in the land of Versheleen, nearly a thousand miles to the south of the Chadevan Sea. Over the soft song of the fiddles, Mer Zhidelka also supplied the ladies with such interesting anecdotes about how he came to be acquainted with each dance, that frequently Vedero stood completely still to listen, and then got poked and chided by Csethiro. Few opportunities to leave the Untheileneise Court had ever come her way, fewer still even to leave Cetho. After her marriage to Eshevis Tethimar, she would undoubtedly go to reside in Thu-Athamar for much of the year. That would provide a pleasant novelty.

“No, step _this_ way - ” said Csethiro, and pulled Vedero into three long sliding steps. “Now back again – and clap your hands against mine - ” They managed to miss each others' palms, which was surely ridiculous for two grown women, and Vedero laughed.

The door to the Study opened. She had time to think, _a late arrival?_ before an entire detachment of the Untheileneise Court burst in and came straight for her. Their blades were unsheathed.

The fiddles scraped to silence.

“What is this?” she asked the captain, as the soldiers pushed Csethiro away and formed a tight square around her.

“By order of Lord Chavar,” said the captain, whose ears were stiff and twitching with tension.

“But is it a coup,” she asked softly, “or an abduction?”

His eyes flew wide. He was very young. “Neither! Neither, your Grace! Of course not! It is - ” He bit his lip. “Let us take you to Lord Chavar?” he pleaded, looking overwhelmed.

In a gap between the gleaming helmets of the guards, Vedero caught Csethiro's eyes. Her friend's face was drawn into a sharp, worried frown, but Vedero saw with relief a little nod: she would take care of matters here, manage the rumours, be gracious to Mer Zhidelka …

So she went with the captain and his soldiers, not yet convinced that she did not go to some prison or danger. She felt cold and still inside. The reign of Varenechibel IV Drazhar had been unperturbed by any events great enough to cause visible effect within the Untheileneise Court itself. Yet at the back of every imperial daughter's mind must be a faint fear. Ciris had enjoyed leaping out at her from dark passages when she was little, until she had learned to stop screaming her shock. “It's to teach you caution, little sister,” he would say, then run off laughing.

“What do you know, captain?” she demanded several times as they walked, but he only begged her to await her answers from the Lord Chancellor.

She considered breaking free of the enclosure of soldiers, until they passed through the Duchess Pashavel Gardens, usually a quiet retreat. Now couriers streaked back and forth across its flagged paths, running so fast they blurred. If not for the guards she might have been knocked about.

Of the couriers she might have demanded answers. But her mouth was dry, and all she did was speed up her pace.

In Uleris Chavar's private chambers, Vedero found Csoru also as well as the stout chancellor, complaining loudly about the indignity of the summons while Chavar wrenched a silk handkerchief to shreds. “Ah!” he said, his face gleaming with sweat yet without a trace of its usual high flush, “your Grace – come in, come in - ”

“We certainly shall,” said Vedero, hoping she did not tremble as she strolled to take a position in the centre of the room. Chavar followed. He barely reached her chin. “You will tell us immediately what has caused this presumptuous behaviour.”

“At least you were awake, Vedero, even if it was at one of your silly salons. _We_ were having a nap,” snapped Csoru. “Lord Chavar! The Emperor will be most displeased by your actions! For a young bride such as ourself, rest is crucial if we are to fulfill our greatest duty - “

“We have received news,” said Chavar, voice cracking. “That the _Wisdom of Choharo_ … has crashed.”

Csoru gasped. “No! Is he hurt?”

“Csoru Zhasanai, the Emperor is … the Emperor is dead. So are all who were on board.”

“That isn't possible!”

“Your Highness, we are very sorry, but so say the reports we have received.”

“But they were to be back soon!”

“It happened this morning. News has only just reached us. The Emperor, the Prince, the Archdukes … all dead, by the goddesses … We are so sorry for your loss … you! Guard! summon the Empress's edocharei! She is overcome. Dear lady, be calm - ”

Vedero turned, blindly groping for the back of a sofa to support her. Where had the air gone? It was burned, burned with the _Wisdom of Choharo._ She saw her father, white skin turned black with soot. Nemolis's delicate hands, flailing for purchase. Nazhira with closed eyes, praying. Ciris would have shouted and screamed.

“Lord Chavar, is it certain?” she whispered, because she had to ask, just in case.

He continued fussing over Csoru, who was working herself into head-shaking hysterics.

“ _Lord Chavar_!” she snarled.

“Archduchess?”

“It is certain?”

“Of course.” He turned back to the Empress – who would never now be Zhasan, thought Vedero with a strange detachment, so no wonder she was making the most of this last occasion for high drama.

“Have you told the Princess, Lord Chavar? _Lord Chavar?_ ”

“Indeed, Archduchess, we spoke to her already. She has gone, to prepare her son for his role.”

Vedero, breathing very consciously, thought through the implications of that sentence. Then she said, “You refer, of course, to Idra's role as Prince of the Untheileneise Court. Have you yet summoned our youngest brother?”

Csoru stopped screaming, at that. But Vedero held Chavar's startled gaze until he mumbled that yes, of course he would do the proper thing, he was about to write a letter, he would have it sent to Edonomee, of course as swiftly as possible … at which point Vedero left for the nearest lavatory and was sick.

Csethiro found her there, later, and took her hand. “At least the matter of Eshevis is postponed,” she said, voice thin as paper, and Vedero turned, placed her face in her friend's shoulder, and began to weep.

*

**III.** _The_ _Wake for the Death_ _s_ _of Varenechibel IV Drazhar, Prince Nemolis Drazhar, Archduke Nazhira Drazhar and Archduke Ciris Drazhar_

*

She had never felt less like dancing. In the Untheileneise'meire half the scions of the Drazhada lay dead, and she could not imagine them being danced to peace if the wake lasted a century. How _angry_ Father would be, if he could know how his end had come! How much Nemolis would worry for his children, and Ciris for his absurd little betrothed, and Nazhira for his books – which Vedero had appropriated to argument from no one, though her interest in philosophy was slight.

“Do not cry, Vedero,” breathed Csethiro, an anchor at her side. “This is not the time for it.”

She had wept so often already that she thought her eyes must be permanently reddened, that she would wear that marking of grief to her grave like the mourning-wounds of the Nazhmorhathveras. She wanted to weep again now. But she was an archduchess, she was Drazhada, and Csethiro was right, so she held her chin high. The people in the Untheileian must not see even more weakness in the Drazhada.

“What is he like?”

Csethiro did not need to name “he” for Vedero to understand. “I don't yet know.” Tall but small of presence, drowned by his regalia. Not her brothers. _Other_ brothers.

Not Father.

“I recognised him,” she added, with remembered surprise. He was so much taller, but his thin still face was astonishingly similar to what it had been at the funeral of Chenelo ten years ago. Perhaps Setheris Nelar had starved him.

Vedero wished now that she had spoken to him at that other funeral. But she had not dared, had not cared enough to dare.

“Cstheio save us, Vedero! - look at Chavar. He doesn't waste time.”

The chancellor was introducing his beloved son to the strange dark occupant of Father's throne. “Very practical,” said Vedero. Her emotions were sinking like a river drying in summer: so it had been, these past days, a strange experience. On occasion she ran full and turbulent, sobbing: then, as now, everything melted until she was as clear as glass. She had not known she could ever grieve her family so profoundly. Had she not fought terribly with Ciris every day of her life, and thought him a fool? Had she not found Nazhira's philosophical stances utterly offensive to women? Why did she miss Nemolis, when she had only seen him every week or so in court?

Why did _Father's_ dying moments haunt _her_ every waking moment?

“And Nurevis is certainly taking advantage. What a poor hobgoblin, to not know better than to let a new acquaintance stand at his side for hours! Will he last, dost think, Vedero?”

She suppressed a shiver, despite the warmth of the Untheileian, trying to guide her thoughts back to the present moment. “He must. Regencies have no history of success.” And poor Idra had no inclinations to power: so often had Nemolis protected him from Sheveän's urgent, angry lessons in future imperiality!

Csethiro began to speak again, but - “May we have this dance?” It was Lord Chavar. She took his hand silently, floating away from her friend.

He tried to talk to her, but she didn't care to listen, and unlike Csethiro he would not dare challenge her. Politics had taken a turn for bloody, deathly reality. His rambles about the Tethimada alliance and the insult of Maia's choice of regnal name were irrelevant. He should be concerned about further assassins, about economic stability, about how to make his hands less clammy on a woman's waist. His feet were clumsy, and she had to push him into the correct movements of the dance. What an insult to the dead!

Afterwards, she could not find Csethiro again. Her friend was much in demand, a born courtier, and after a moment Vedero spied her whirling and smiling in the arms of the ambassador from Estelveriär. Perhaps she should find and talk to Nemriän. Their conversation upon Nemriän's arrival at court had been brief, soured by Nemriän's obsession with politics -

The light from the lamp to her left was eclipsed. “May we have this dance?”

It was Eshevis Tethimar, looming far too close, and the stillness of her feelings began to eddy.

He held out a hand, and the people and glitter of the Untheileneise'meire swirled behind him, and she did not take that hand.

“Archduchess?” His smile was made of gritted teeth.

“We do not have the heart to dance,” she said.

He lowered his arm. “You will tell the new Emperor of the contract between us.”

“What contract?” She tilted her head a little to look him full in the eyes.

“ _The contract of marriage._ ” He hissed the words, that sudden temper she had noted before once more in evidence. “We have spoken already with the Emperor but he is an uncertain young fool – he requires guidance – advice! A pathetic figure, in fact! He needs this alliance with the Tethimada as much as your father did.” Abruptly his hand shot out to her wrist, and he dragged her onto the dance floor.

“Release us.” She wrenched against his grip. Her pulse hammered against his gloved skin. “How dare you?”

“We have no intention of releasing you,” he snapped, reeling her in, grabbing her waist. She was forced to follow his lead, or make a spectacle of herself amid the crowds.

“We do not intend to dictate our brother's decisions, either as Emperor or as head of the house of Drazhada,” she informed him flatly. And what _would_ Maia's decisions be? Not their father's, she suspected, because her faint memories of Chenelo – Vedero had been just ten when her goblin stepmother had lived at court – suggested a far gentler and more contemplative person than Varenechibel IV. And was that good or bad? Could an Emperor be other than Father had been?

“He is a fool waiting to be influenced.”

That was a statement which Drazhada pride could not stand, little though she knew of Edrehasivar VII. “We do not find that statement appropriate.” She spun under his arm, before he described a circle around her with short, stamping steps. They were in the very centre of the dancers now, too deeply embedded for her to make a discreet exit from the floor. Marriage to him would be like this. And his grip remained so tight. Never before had a dance felt like a trap.

He gave her another of those false, skeletal smiles. “Archduchess. Edrehasivar is a half-breed raised in isolation from all that is important in the world. It is not inappropriate to suggest that he requires instruction. The political need for our alliance is great.”

He was not Chavar; she could not ignore him, much as she wanted to do so. “We are only an archduchess,” she said, retreating behind a despised shield. “What do we know of politics? It is proper only for us to obey our Emperor.”

The music came to an end. Still he kept his grasp on her, as if he could marry her then and there. “We did not know thou held such proper views. Thy fate lies with _me_ , Vedero Drazhin,” he said, softly, the informal words barely reaching her ear. Then let her go, quickly as if casting a bird free in flight. She stepped back, seeing a trace of mockery on his face. The instinct of prey told her not to turn her back, but she did, walking away quickly. She wanted to find Csethiro, seek refuge in her friend's calmness.

Another thought came: she should approach Edrehasivar. Should state her case. _We do not want to marry the dach'osmer_ – and would her goblin brother laugh? Obey? Chastise her for seeking to shirk her father's last intentions? But what a selfish creature she was even to think of such things. She should walk the more proper course, should encourage him to affirm the match. He did need the alliance.

She was too afraid to put the matter to the test. Too doubtful of what she might actually say, when the topic was broached.

“Your coldness to Dach'osmer Tethimar was embarrassingly clear,” hissed Csoru Zhasanai, passing by Vedero in a flurry of skirts. “Don't forget your position, Vedero dear!”

Impossible to forget. How stupid Csoru was. At least she no longer had to endure family meals with the woman …

She saw Sheveän and Stanis approaching the throne. Double unpleasantness for poor little Maia! Suddenly, unbearably weary in her silks and jewels and grief, Vedero resolved to take some sweets from the sideboard to Ino and Mireän in the nursery – no gossip could condemn such a familial gesture, particularly in an archduchess often mocked for her coolness – and take refuge in their simple companionship. She found Csethiro talking to some of their friends, whispered a farewell into her worried ear, and slipped away.

She took an escort of guards with her.

She had not missed that Eshevis Tethimar still watched her.

Later, after seeing the girls, she watched the stars from her rooms: blessedly pure and high and so far beyond the Ethuverazheise skies that had brought death to her family.

*

**IV.** _Preparations for the Engagement Ball of the Future Empress Csethiro Drazharan_

*

While in residence in the capital, the Ceredada always occupied a great townhouse in the city, since it was far more commodious and suitable for their needs than the small suites of rooms available to every great House of the Ethuveraz in the Untheileneise Court itself. This choice of habitation was one of the many reasons Csethiro more generally visited Vedero than the other way around, even such a short journey being a simpler matter for a marquess's daughter than an emperor's. Vedero had learned her lesson at fifteen, after Father had locked her in her rooms for three months after an unsanctioned excursion to the city's smartest theatre.

But no new instructions had issued forth from the Alcethmeret, and Vedero's latest experiences with her brother Maia, while unsettling to the core, had suggested to her the idea that he did not care for her movements as long as he had her loyalty. For some time she had not dared to test this idea, but the great happiness engendered by watching a meteor shower the night before had given her fresh courage. This was despite the protestations of Sheveän and Csoru, that she should hold to Father's last-known wishes. “For how many years?” Vedero had asked, and left them. Her respect for her female relatives, never high, had diminished in proportion to their rising dislike of Maia. Her sister-in-law seemed to do nothing with her days now but remain closeted with Chavar and Stanis, complaining, while the children went unattended except for their tutor and nurse and whatever hours Vedero could spare.

So to Csethiro she went – with an edocharo and some guards: she was no fool – because she could, because she dared, because she was worried for her friend. Reluctant though she was to entertain the thought, it seemed that Csethiro had been avoiding her in recent weeks, only speaking to her on social occasions, replying to her notes with lightness instead of truth. To be sure there was great upheaval in her life now too, but always before had she turned to friendship as a solace from the world.

Perhaps this detachment was Vedero's fault. Grief had made her withdrawn for a time, then uncertainty and shock had held her still ...

At the townhouse a servant, between bows and panicked glances for a superior, showed her to a drawing room before departing in search of Dach'osmin Ceredin. Vedero instructed her edocharo to wait outside, and disposed herself neatly on a gilded chair, putting back the veil that had protected her from the dirt of the streets. The room was higher than it was wide, a fire burning a trifle smokily in the hearth. Apart from its crackle there was no sound in the room, but she could hear great chaos in the house beyond. Thumps of furniture, rattling porcelain, the shouts of workers. The Ceredada were to throw a celebratory engagement ball on the following night – according to custom, none of the bridegroom's family could attend.

The door opened. She looked up, starting to smile, the expression dying the moment she saw Csethiro's face. She wore fury smudged into old tears around her eyes.

Instinctively Vedero rose. “What is wrong?”

“Nothing – that is, nothing new.” Csethiro slammed the door. “I have been fighting with Father.”

“About thy marriage?” Vedero asked the question cautiously. Csethiro's withdrawal dated from the betrothal.

“Of course: what else?” Csethiro moved around the room like a gust of wind, trailing her fingers with an almost subliminal squeak over the backs of chairs. “I am sorry I have been distant.” Characteristic directness! That had been one of the things to draw Vedero to Csethiro, something more than four years ago when the Ceredada girl was newly arrived at Court. “I have been scarce able to tolerate myself lately - so full of frustrated feeling as I am. I did not think I should impose myself on others.”

“Am I “others”, then?”

Csethiro came to a stop, skirts swishing to silence. “A well-deserved reproof. Vedero, how did you _bear_ knowing you were to marry Tethimar?”

“Tis the way of the world.” Or was. The world was reshaped. To be gifted with time and freedom, just as Csethiro saw her choices withdrawn! “Besides,” she added, studying the other's stiff profile with her eyes, “I do not think my brother is at all like Eshevis Tethimar.”

“But what do any of us know of him?”

Vedero had brought a little bundle of correspondence from the Court, slipped into the deep, narrow pocket of her dress. Producing it now, she undid the lavender ribbons and produced the topmost letter – no, not a letter, a note. “Look at this, dear one.”

It bore but a few short words, and Vedero had spent weeks reading and rereading it. Csethiro came across, took it, stood still as her eyes traced it over and over again. Vedero rose, feeling awkward with her height in a way she had not since adolescence. “The matter of Tethimar is over,” she said. “He confirmed it to me – Maia did, I mean. Edrehasivar. He must be a little mad, to ignore such a card in his hand without Ino or Mireän being yet of age. But it is a kind madness. Perhaps he thinks of his mother and her unhappiness ... At first I tried to dissuade him, but I am not strong enough to reject the path now offered me … ” Finding her voice shaking beyond all control, she stopped. She swallowed against the lump in her throat.

“ _Study the stars_ ,” whispered Csethiro. “As if it was that simple.”

“He knows nothing of the world. To him, perhaps it is. How long my reprieve will last I know not, but I must - “ Again her voice wavered, but this time she persisted. “I must trust in thee, my new sister, to keep him innocent and giving.”

“ _Study the stars_.” Csethiro bowed her head, so Vedero could see the neat line of her parting. “It seems I have done him an injustice. My friend, for this alone must I love him. Even if he beats me every night!”

Such an image shattered Vedero's emotions into something akin to amusement, which was just as well, because for a moment she had been going to weep with the ache in her heart. “I do not think he could! Or would. He is a strangely sweet creature. I did not think the Drazhada blood could produce such.”

“Think'st not that thou art sweet?” Csethiro dropped the note onto the chair, and grabbed Vedero's hands. Something fierce swept across her face. “How selfish I've been, these past weeks, thinking only of myself. How happy I am, that thou hast this great freedom!”

“Csethiro - !” Vedero protested, half-laughing, as she was heaved into the centre of the room. “What art thou – oh, is this the dance from Estelveriär? But I am sure the steps do not go thusly - “

“Tradition holds thou canst not attend the ball tomorrow night, so wilt dance thy happiness for me now. We will dance for _thy_ happiness, too!”

Uncertain which she hoped for more, Vedero obeyed, trying not to catch her feet on the rugs. This kind of physical freedom was an experience she associated purely with her friend. In the Untheileneise Court, Csoru and Sheveän and latterly Stanis held to a stiffer style of movement, favouring more measured dances, and etiquette that involved ladies remaining seated at all times. No doubt Csethiro as Empress would turn this on its head: the idea was delightful, and not just because Vedero had always disliked Sheveän and her angry, self-centered approach to life. “I truly hope,” she said, her feet having remembered the correct rhythm for the cross-steps, “– nay, I _believe_ – that thou wilt find peace with him. He is no Eshevis.”

“Could the world possibly hold another Eshevis?” Csethiro teased, starlight back in her eyes, her delicate indoor skirts swelling like a summer rose as she spun.

“Be serious, now.”

“I am!”

Vedero laughed. “Did I tell thee, that Tethimar has been sending me letters? He is turned suitor. He woos me, now he has lost me. The paper is scented with lavender. Csoru is quite hot with rage that I do not let her read them.”

“Perhaps she wants him for herself,” Csethiro suggested wickedly. “But they would not deal well. He has not a morsel of indulgence in his entire form!”

“I brought his letters to show thee. They make …. artificial ... reading.”

Csethiro made a gagging expression, orbiting with Vedero around the sofas in great gliding turns, and they both laughed this time. Vedero sank into the dance, relishing the long and eddying arm movements of Estelveriärzhe dance. Delighting in the peace that settled on Csethiro's face like first snowfall.

And cherishing, careful as if it were a speck of stardust from a dream, the hope for her own future.

*

**V.** _The First Winternight Ball of Edrehasivar VII Drazhar's Reign_

*

She had exchanged barely more than a handful of words with her rediscovered brother since his coronation, most of them on the subject of Eshevis Tethimar. Almost she had become afraid of trying for more. As if, should he be given the chance to contemplate her extensively in person, he might direct the full beam of imperial attention upon her and lock her once more into a woman-shaped cultural cage.

But it was Winternight, the night of the new year, of new things, and Csethiro had told her roundly to stop being so foolish. “Thou encouraged me to see him more gently, so I cannot do better than to make thee do the same.”

How wise Csethiro was. It was indeed a foolish fear. The Court always talked, and for some time now the Court talked of nothing but how Edrehasivar VII was everything that was not Varenechibel IV – for better or worse, according to each speaker. So. Maia had set her free; he had done it only because she wanted it. Eshevis had not spoken to her so much as once this evening, had not grabbed her into a dance! And this after weeks of ardent notes and bouquets! He only skulked around the Untheileian, speaking to a man here, a man there. Not even a glance from him did she notice.

 _Freedom_. The most priceless gift of an emperor, and she – she! - had it. Was it wrong to be glad, when it had only come about through great loss and tragedy? Sometimes when she saw the children her breath stopped with the pain of grief.

But nothing could bring her father and brothers back. One could only live the future one was given.

So, after a succession of dances, Vedero took a breath and approached the dais. Csethiro was seated there, on a simple chair by Maia's throne, chattering at him. She looked happy, and Vedero smiled and took a deep breath. Her eyes drifted to her brother, picking out the details of his expression: listening intensely, slightly wondering, slightly puzzled but in a delighted way. That, she decided, was just as it should be. An emperor should have good taste.

Perhaps Csethiro, who had ever been more interested in the possibilities of marriage than Vedero, would find – or make – a kind of freedom in this forced match after all.

It was a good thought.

Csethiro saw her, and left her imperial betrothed with a curtsey and a demurely friendly flick of the ears. At the foot of the dais she and Vedero pressed hands. “Courage,” she murmured, smiling, and Vedero passed her, ascending.

Her peace-offering was an eclipse, and it was accepted, and the conversation was so short that when she left him she wondered if it had all been a dream. But she was claimed by a courier to dance the next moment, and as he spun her in circles she caught a glimpse of Maia's face and the smile upon it, and was quietly sure that expression had not just been caused by Csethiro's attentions. She'd remembered to thank him, and her gratitude had surprised him, and he had said yes to a glimpse into her passion.

She had lost so much of her family, but now, she thought, it was growing again, just a little. Furthermore, she did not think he would break her telescopes and then laugh, like Ciris had used to do before she got more clever about locking them away.

She felt grounded, as if she was a tree and had sprouted roots, the stone floor as strong as a goddess beneath her – yet also light and free, able to curl up her roots and move from place to place. The eclipse was only the beginning. As she clapped hands and twisted under the arm of the handsome young courier, she thought of visits to universities – disguised as imperial excursions, a suggestion Father had ever discarded – and trips to see other intellectual women with whom she had only ever corresponded. Perhaps even she might cross the sea and see the different stars of different lands …

The dance finished in a blaze of stamping.

Several sets later, the Great Avar claimed her hand. “You like our grandson?” he asked directly, holding her very neatly for such a large man. Strange how his height did not intimidate her, when Eshevis's always had! She could smell the citrus-scented oil he used to make his moustaches gleam.

“He is very different from our father,” she said. “But still we see promise in him. To have survived such an abrupt transition speaks to his favour. And our dearest friend is to be his bride, which can only be to his advantage.”

“Ah, the Dach'osmin Ceredin! Not too pretty, but clever, we think. Which is more important.”

“Indeed,” said Vedero, ignoring the aspersion on her friend's appearance. Obviously he had not seen Csethiro's smile.

“And a good match besides – the Ceredada are a House of some power.”

Winternight, as far as Vedero was concerned, should not be a night for talking politics. But Great Avars and Emperors had good reason for being obsessed with such things.

“And you did not answer our question,” he added, while she spun away and then was reeled back in, her feet sliding neatly across the floor. “Do you _like_ him?”

She hesitated. Images flashed in her memories – swearing loyalty to her dark, half-forgotten brother; that short note that had changed everything; how he had handled Sheveän's conspiracy; his unknowingly-besotted gaze upon Csethiro.

She nodded.

“Good.” Profound satisfaction spread across his dark face.

“And do you - ?” she began, her lingering happiness leading her to be daring.

But her words were shattered by what sounded like lightning from the dais, and she turned her head.

One of the nohecharei, bloodied, fell across the Emperor, and Eshevis Tethimar's unmistakeable figure toppled to the floor, trailing a brief flash of smoke.

Silence and stillness, as pure as a night's sky, fell across the Untheileian.

Then Csoru screamed, which was so like Csoru, and the Great Avar wrapped a protective arm around Vedero's shoulders, and the Hezhethora exploded out of the crowd towards their ruler, drawing blades in a panicking confusion that, Vedero thought, made it quite wonderful that no-one had been hurt. “ _Moon-witted ninnies,_ _all and one_!” roared the Great Avar, and Vedero saw far away that Maia's sparkling diamond-adorned self was moving.

“Cstheio, Lady of Stars, I thank you,” she whispered beneath her breath, and it seemed to her that her heart began to beat again.

The Untheileneise Guard appeared to be indulging in an even more embarrassing display of panic than the Hezhethora, so Vedero kept close to the Great Avar, though she watched closely the unfurling events on the dais. Lord Berenar – _what_ an improvement on Chavar! - was managing things quite competently, assisted by Maia's favourite secretary, and their only mistake was not noticing that Maia's dark face getting queasier and queasier. When he dashed away – followed by a distraught gaggle of nohecharei and Guards – Vedero was completely sure he was going to the nearest lavatory.

Her eyes went again to the body sprawled before the throne, half-obscured by the legs of soldiers.

This death she did not regret. This death made her heart fill with shooting stars.

She wanted to dance again.

“Vedero! Vedero!”

Csethiro was pressing between two of the Hezhethora, who looked distinctly edgy about this feminine intrusion. Her ears were stiff with panic, eyes trained on Vedero.

“What happened? Is he well? Every person is saying different things - “

“Yes, he is well – didst thou not see?”

Csethiro made a short gesture of pure rage with her fists. “My stupid father took me an antechamber to tell me not to talk the Emperor's ears off! All we heard was chaos! It was _Eshevis_?”

“Dach'osmer Tethimar is dead.” Vedero tapped the Great Avar's shoulder sharply. “We beg that you instruct your men to allow Dach'osmin Ceredin within this circle!”

Maia's grandfather spun the two relevant guards apart with his great hands, and Csethiro slid in quickly. She barely reached the Great Avar's ribs. “Dead. Truly dead?” she breathed, grabbing Vedero's hands.

Vedero returned the grip, squeezing. Csethiro's hands were chilly. “It was a revethmaz, and he could not be more dead. It must be connected to the _Wisdom of Choharo_.”

The idea was dizzying, but she knew it in her bones with the instincts of a lifetime of politics, and it was another reason that made her restless with the urge to dance and celebrate Eshevis's death. She had so nearly been in a piece of his plot.

“Of course. Cstheio save us, to think thou wert nearly his bride - “ Csethiro, heedless of public propriety, flung her arms around Vedero. It was a hard, fierce embrace, and she sank into it, hugging back tightly. The top of Csethiro's head was a little below her nose; she could smell light sweat, and the familiar spicy perfume. “I am so glad,” was muttered into her shoulder. “Whatever may come to pass in the future, at least thou no longer need fear _him_.”

Then abruptly Csethiro pulled away. “I must see him for myself,” she said.

Vedero released her reluctantly. “Eshevis's dead body?”

“No, Maia, of course.”

Of course. “Take one of the Hezhethora – if the Great Avar permits,” added Vedero, politely, switching to a more formal style once more. “We know not what other events may be yet to come this night in the Court.”

“Very true,” said the Great Avar briskly. The matter was arranged, and Vedero watched her friend streaking away, purposeful as a comet, a goblin soldier scurrying in her wake.

“A good match,” said the great old goblin. “She will make an excellent Empress.”

“Yes.” Vedero breathed deeply. “Yes, she will.” Stupid to think, for a moment, that she was losing a friend. In truth she was gaining a sister. All things changed.

One of the Hezhethora captains began persuasions on the subject of bedtime (in other words, the security of his quarters), which made the Great Avar react rather like Ino or Mireän, to Vedero's hidden amusement. But just before he was hustled away, and she left to the overeager protectiveness of another solitary guard, a thought came. She might not be alone with him again. She touched his shoulder again. “We hear you have an observatory in your capital city,” she said. “We do not. Perhaps this is because yours is a seafaring nation, ever more attentive to the sky.”

His orange eyes looked at her impassively.

“Perhaps one day, we could make a diplomatic visit,” she said. “And a tour of the great sights of the city.”

Understanding gleamed across his face. He bowed a little, as much as his belly would allow. “We would be happy to welcome our grandson's sister, and the future aunt of our great-grandchildren,” he said.

She watched him go, then turned her steps to her own quarters. The fussing of her edocharei she repressed; she gave instructions to the guards at her door to disturb her only if there was news of another assassination attempt, or some similar disaster. Then she climbed to the roof, in layers of furs, and took out her telescope. Though the night was chased with patchy clouds, she watched what stars she could until dawn came. Thoughts softening into a contented blur, she fell asleep with the first sunlight of the new year stroking her face.

**Author's Note:**

> I began this for fun, but it ended up more or less suiting the "forced marriage" square for my hc_bingo card, yay. (http://hc-bingo.livejournal.com)


End file.
